


life is simple when i can just ignore it all

by Swira



Series: snakes are biting at my heels [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fanart, M/M, Pre-Punisher Season 2, Pre-Relationship, post Daredevil season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 15:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17563268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swira/pseuds/Swira
Summary: Prequel to "snakes are biting at my heels" because the trope "ennemies to friends to lovers" is the air I breathe





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it is 2AM my dudes, nothing is real, have this humble offering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: a friend of mine did some cool-ass fanart for this, i don't deserve it???? anyway i added it here, it's awesome i can't stop staring at it

 

The most ridiculous part of their little duo is that it starts on a coincidence.

They don’t even meet on purpose, or wearing their respective vigilante suits, trying to bust the same crime ring or even running on rooftops, _no_. They meet in a coffee shop, and Frank is wearing sweatpants.

He should’ve known better than to come to Hell’s Kitchen, thinking back, but he didn’t even consider that he could run into Daredevil in plain daylight, in a totally random public place. It’s not like Hell’s Kitchen was _small_ , what were the chances, right?

Used to his luck, by now, he really should’ve known better.

Madani had given him his new identity and he’d given her his word that he was leaving the city. He’d said his goodbyes to David and gathered what little he had from their shared hiding place, but that still left him with practically nothing, and he knew there was a lot in his old safe houses in Hell’s Kitchen that could still be of use.

So here he is, having just emptied the second to last of his hideouts, waiting for his drink in an unassuming coffee shop, when he hears someone stop right next to him. He’s sitting at a table tucked in a corner, a cap low on his face to hide his features, so there’s no way this person just stopped there by accident. He tenses but pretends he doesn’t notice them, waiting to see what this is about.

“What are you doing here?”

He immediately raises his head when he hears the familiar, accusatory voice.

 

 

Matthew Murdock is standing over him, knuckles as white as the cane they’re gripping and his face a mask of barely restrained anger, judging by what Frank can see that isn’t hidden behind his glasses. He’s wearing his regular day suit, so at least Frank knows he won’t try anything out here.

“Murdock,” he says once he gets his voice back, unable to keep the surprise out of it.

Murdock - it seems weird calling him Red when he’s not wearing the suit - doesn’t answer, but his eyebrows do a thing that makes Frank think he better play it safe if he doesn’t want to end up with his face through the shop’s front window.

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he says, raising his hands in appeasement.

Murdock’s lips go thin and he stays silent for a moment, tilting his head as if to read his face. It’s hard to tell with those stupid glasses in the way, and Frank wishes he’d drop the act for a minute. It’s not like he doesn’t already know he’s the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and there’s practically no one around.

“Why are you here, then?” Murdock finally asks, less guarded but still tense. _Uh_ , he might actually believe him, Frank’s impressed at himself.

“I’m packing up,” he answers truthfully.

“Leaving town?” Murdock asks, sounding doubtful.

Frank nods silently.

“For where?” he presses, confirming Frank’s already almost-certainty that he’s faking the whole blind thing.

“Dunno,” Frank shrugs. “I’m thinking of heading west, for starters.”

Murdock keeps looking more and more confused with each answer, it’s almost funny.

“You’re really just _leaving?”_ he asks disbelievingly.

“Yeah,” Frank says, letting himself relax a little against the back of his chair.

Murdock frowns, making himself look a little like a lost puppy.

“Wherever the wind takes you, not to cause any trouble again?” he insists.

Frank lets out a laugh. “Yeah, I guess.”

Murdock frowns again. “How am I supposed to believe that, after everything that’s happened?”

“I don’t give a shit what you believe, Murdock,” Frank says, annoyed. “I got a new chance, so I’m taking it.”

He was supposed to have coffee, not discuss his life choices, for Christ’s sake.

Murdock looks cold again, and this time Frank notices the dark circles peaking from under his glasses. Now that he’s seen that, he also sees the bruise under his jaw and the freshly healed cut on his brow. He looks like shit.

“You look like shit,” he tells him.

Murdock opens his mouth, but the waitress arrives with Frank’s order before he has a chance to speak and he snaps it shut.

“Here you go,” she chirps as she slides his coffee in front of him.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, giving her the nicest smile he can manage before she leaves again.

They’re both silent for a while as Frank considers Murdock while he tries not to look like he just swallowed a lemon and fails. He could flee, it’s not like Murdock can start running after him, and his car isn’t far. He could be gone before the police gets here.

But he’s just spent all morning rummaging through drawers and bloody clothes, he’s still sore everywhere from his fight with Billy, and his coffee’s warm.

Frank sighs. “You gonna stand here all day, or you gonna sit down?”

“What?” Murdock says, frowning.

“You didn’t come here for me, did you? So I guess you wanted coffee, before you decided to have this lovely conversation,” Frank reasons. He nods at the chair in front of him. “Sit down, and I can convince you that you won’t ever have to worry about me again while I drink this.”

He raises his cup in front of him for emphasis before taking a sip. When he lowers it, Murdock doesn’t look any closer to choosing what he’s going to do. Frank rolls his eyes.

“Come on, Murdock, what are you gonna do anyway?” he sighs, opening his arms to encompass their surroundings. “Fight me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Murdock growls.

Franks scoffs. “Sure.”

He goes back to his coffee and proceeds to ignore him to the best of his capacity. It takes a while, but finally he sees the chair before him get pulled back before Murdock slides into it.

“What are you having?” he asks, looking over his shoulder to spot the waitress.

“Espresso. Triple,” he says. He sounds resigned.

“Should’ve known you were that kinda guy,” Frank says as he waves the waitress over.

He orders for him, as Murdock keeps his gaze trained somewhere on the table, his hands wrapped around his cane and keeping it close to him. Some of the tension has left his shoulders, and he suddenly looks exhausted, almost as bad as he did last time Frank saw him, which is saying a lot.

Once the waitress is gone, Frank takes another drink. It’s deliciously hot and burns his tongue.

“So, what have you been up to?” he asks nonchalantly.

Murdock huffs an incredulous laugh and shakes his head.

“Are we really going to talk about the weather?”

Frank shrugs. “Safe subject.”

Murdock tilts his head as if to say, “Fair enough.”

“So, heading west, mh?” he asks with the same calculated indifference as him.

Frank hums in agreement. “Seems like a good start. I’ll see where I’ll go from there.”

“New start?” Murdock asks with real interest hidden under faux-casualness.

Frank looks at him seriously, trying to find his eyes behind his tinted glasses. “I told you, you won’t hear about me again.”

There’s a beat where he can see Murdock considering this, and then he breathes out and it’s as if they’re having a normal conversation.

“Alright,” he simply says, leaning back in his chair.

Frank has trouble masking his surprise, and apparently Murdock’s noticed.

“Not happy I’m letting you off the hook?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at him. He looks like he’s keeping himself from smiling smugly, the fucker.

“Gonna be honest, Murdock, thought it was gonna be harder to convince you,” Frank admits, before using the excuse of his coffee to hide his face long enough to get his composure back.

“As long as you’re away from New York, I guess I don’t care what you do,” Murdock says, shrugging a little.

The waitress comes with his drink, making them fall silent again. Murdock thanks her, giving her a ridiculously charming smile, and as she walks away he catches his cup with nimble fingers and takes a sip. Frank watches him put it back down, wondering if he’s only that careless because he already knows, or if he’s always like that and other people are just dumb enough they don’t notice all the little things that make it clear he can see.

“You should say goodbye to Karen, at least,” Murdock suddenly says, pulling him out of his head. When Frank looks at his face, he looks grim again.

He lowers his gaze to the table, mutters, “It’s better if I don’t.”

“I’m not sure she even knows you’re alive,” Murdock says a little accusingly.

“Maybe it’s better that way, don’t you think?” Frank says through gritted teeth.

Murdock seems to want to say something, but finally decides better of it and closes his mouth. The silence is tense, and stretches for a while. They both have taken a few sips each before anyone dares to speak up again.

Suddenly, Frank hears a sound, and has to look up to confirm it’s really what he thinks it is. Murdock is chuckling.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief.

Frank must be looking at him weird because he goes on to explain, “I heard about a shootout, and I thought you were dead. _Again_. But I guess that was naive of me.” He shrugs. “I mean, it’s only the third time, right?”

Frank can’t help but laugh at that.

“Yeah. Maybe next time it’ll stick,” he says.

They settle into a more confortable silence after that, drinking and enjoying the calm. Cars are honking outside from time to time, the shop’s bell rings as people get in and get out again with fresh coffee in their hands.

Frank spares a thought to consider how ridiculous the whole situation is, but he has trouble caring. Murdock is surprisingly nice company when he’s not trying to jam his morals down his throat. Shame he’ll probably try that again as soon as they bring up the subject.

Except they won’t do that, because they’re never speaking again after that. Because Frank is leaving New York. Right.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it, then,” Murdock suddenly says, breaking his line of thought, and when Frank looks over at him he sees he’s finished his coffee and has gotten up.

“I guess I won’t be seeing you, then,” Frank says as he watches him unfold his cane with easy, familiar motions.

“I hope so,” Murdock says, but he doesn’t sound as threatening as he does playful. “When are you leaving?”

“First thing tomorrow,” he answers. Then, he can’t help but ask, “You trust me to stay on my best behavior until then?”

Murdock gives him a crooked smile, like he knows something he doesn’t and is very smug about it. It’s absolutely not attractive.

“I’d know if you were up to something,” he simply says, cryptic.

He turns around and leaves, thanking the waitress on his way out. Frank watches him walk away, waving his cane in front of him in a practiced movement until he’s out of sight, and only then does he realize: he didn’t pay for his drink.

 

———

 

Frank sees stars for half a second as a wave of white-hot pain goes through him. The impact sends him staggering back a couple steps, clutching at his chest and blindly reaching for support with his other hand.

It was a shotgun blast. Had it gone off only a few feet closer, he probably would’ve been turned to shreds, and he couldn’t even imagine the damage if he hadn’t been wearing a bullet-proof vest too.

When he’d gotten near his last safe house that night, he’d found the place already full of people. Irishmen, judging by what he heard from the two that were guarding the front door.

He’d been methodical, avoiding killing them - Madani probably wouldn’t take his new papers back if he left her another pile of bodies to take care of, but he was better safe than sorry - and being stealthy about it over all. What he’d wanted to take from the place in the first place wasn’t that important, but there also was a hidden stash of weapons he didn’t want them to get their hands on.

So he’d gotten rid of them one by one, finally getting the last one to fall unconscious after keeping him in a chokehold for a while. Or at least he thought it was the last one.

He’d opened the door to one of the top-floor studios, the one he’d been using to hide his weapons almost two years ago, and had been greeted by a shot of lead to the chest. A second blast hits the wall right after that, and he hears a man swear loudly.

“No, don’t kill him! He’s worth more alive,” a second voice says.

“Like shit I’m not killing him! The bastard’s killed Sean!”

Frank groans and forces himself to stay upright as he quickly looks around for cover. He’s in a stairwell, and the only way he could hide is by going down the steps and behind the railing.

Before he has a chance to do that, tough, a loud bang fills the quiet and he feels another sharp stab of pain in his shoulder. He’s forced backwards by the force of the bullet and his back hits the wall, smearing it with blood. His vision’s swimming, but he sees two silhouettes appear in the doorframe right in front of him.

“You’re not going anywhere, asshole,” the one of them that’s holding the handgun says smugly.

He grunts, both in pain and anger, and goes to charge his attackers in a last desperate move, but before he’s even taken a step, he sees one of them get hit in the head by something and collapse. The other one spins around in surprise but has no time to do anything before a familiar dark figure punches him in the face, breaking his nose with a sickening crack and causing him to fall to one knee with a cry of pain. A second blow finishes the job, sending him sprawled out on the ground, unconscious.

Frank loses time after that, but when he comes to he’s still in the stairwell, and Murdock is still here, so it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.

He’s on the ground, now, though, slumped against the wall and kept upright by a strong hand on his uninjured shoulder.

“—thought I told you to stay out of trouble,” Murdock is saying, sounding annoyed. He’s not wearing the red suit, just a black mask covering the top part of his face and dark clothes. From what Frank can tell, they’re not even reinforced. Reckless.

“Didn’t exactly plan this,” he retorts, slurring a little and trying to gesture at himself, cutting himself off with a pained groan when the movement makes him remember he just got shot.

He wants to scream. He was too excited to get a new life, he got careless, and now fucking choir boy Murdock was going to deliver him to the police and ruin all of it. Madani had made it clear he was on his own from now on, she wouldn’t lift a finger to help him.

“Fuckin’ idiot,” he grumbles.

“I’m trying to help you,” Murdock says, more annoyed than offended, as he moves Frank’s arm around his shoulders.

“Not talkin’ about you,” Frank says before letting out a loud string of swears when Murdock hoists him up.

“Come on, let’s get going,” Murdock huffs, leading him to the room with the two unconscious Irishmen and the fire escape, which is probably how he got here in the first place. That’s when Frank realizes he has no idea where they’re going.

With three gunshots fired, the police were probably already on their way, so why bother taking him to them when he could just leave him there for them to find?

“What are you doing, Murdock?” he slurs, trying to get a look at what he can see of his face as he dislodges his arm from around him to get him out the window and on the fire escape.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he bites back.

“Not really, no,” Frank says.

Murdock gets out after him and ducks under his arm again, starting to get them up the stairs.

“I’m helping you get your new start,” he says.

 

———

 

They get to a roof with a door, next to which Murdock makes him lean on the wall as he gets his keys out and unlocks it.

“Where are we?” Frank asks when they get in, unable to keep the suspiciousness out of his voice.

They go down a few steps. It’s dark, but he can see what looks like a couch and a table, and further to the right, a counter splitting a small kitchen from the rest of the room.

“My place,” Murdock says as he leads them to the couch.

Frank’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, but he doesn’t find anything to say. He’d never thought Murdock would take him to the place where he lives. Sure, he knows his real identity already, but that and bringing him _home_ are two completely different things.

Still, he’s not complaining. Not yet.

Murdock still doesn’t seem to be planning something that would end up with Frank in prison, but Frank doesn’t completely rule out the possibility that this is an elaborate ruse - even if that would be a little stupid, since he’d just gotten him away from a crime scene in the first place.

Had it been anyone else, he would have been worried they were going to kill him themselves, but that was Holier-Than-Thou Murdock they were talking about; the only danger he was in was killing himself to get away from his moral lessons.

“Stay here,” Murdock says once he’s got him sitting on the couch, taking his gloves off as he turns around.

“With pleasure,” Frank says cynically.

He painstakingly gets his vest off one-handed and watches from the corner of his eye as Murdock opens a sliding door in front of him and ducks inside what seems to be his room, judging by the glimpse Frank gets. He comes out a few seconds later carrying a huge first aid kit he brings over to him, laying it out on the table. He also throws him a bottle of painkillers, which Frank just puts on the couch next to him. He wants to keep his head, in the off-chance that he’s going to get butchered. Murdock doesn’t say anything, so he probably doesn’t care.

“You don’t happen to know anyone who could do this, do you?” Murdock asks as he opens the kit, pausing to tilt his head questioningly.

Frank thinks about Curtis, then remembers he’s supposed to have quit his night activities. Also, it’s almost three AM, and even though Curtis would come in a heartbeat if he asked, he’s not sure he wants to bring him back into his mess again.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Do you?”

Murdock makes a face. “I do, but I’m not sure she wouldn’t just call the police on you if I asked her for help.”

“Well, I guess we’re on our own, then,” he says, shrugging with his good shoulder.

It’s not that dramatic; the bullet didn’t go through, so he doesn’t have to worry about his shoulder blade being broken, and he’s almost sure most of the shotgun pellets were stopped by his vest. And even if some weren’t, they couldn’t be very deep. He’s mostly hurting from the force of the blast, or at least that’s what he tells himself.

“If you have someone you can call, I’d rather you did,” Murdock says, in a tone that suggests that he knows Frank lied to him.

Frank glares at him.

“I don’t,” he says with finality. “Why are you stalling anyway? Scared of a little blood? Because I can do it myself if you’re not feeling up to it.”

Murdock’s lips press together in an angry line. “Fine, do whatever you want,” he snaps, getting all the necessary stuff out of the kit. “But I can’t guarantee anything.”

“Maybe start by turning on the lights?” he says sarcastically. “Or take off the mask? Might be better if you see what you’re digging into.”

Murdock stops in his tracks and looks at him, lips slightly parted in something like surprise - it’s hard to read him when he can only see half of his face.

Frank raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. Did he really not think about that? Suddenly he’s not so sure he wants this guy to stab him with tweezers.

But Murdock’s mouth stretches into a smile almost immediately, and he shakes his head in disbelief.

“What?” Frank grunts in annoyance. Again, Murdock seems to know something he doesn’t, and he doesn’t like it.

“This is kind of awkward,” he says in lieu of an answer, clearly meaning _For you_.

Frank’s about to repeat his question with added irritation for good measure, but he finds his words missing when Murdock grabs his mask and tugs it off, revealing his face.

 

 

His hair looks kind of ridiculous, sticking in eight different directions, but what really gets his attention are his eyes. He can’t make out their exact color in the dark, but there’s clearly something off with them. They’re unfocused, as if he’s looking right through him, and when he tilts his head, Frank sees that they don’t catch on anything.

“You’re blind,” he says disbelievingly, unable to keep his tone flat.

Murdock nods, smiling a little apologetically. “I thought you knew.”

“How was I supposed to know?” he retorts incredulously.

“Because you knew who I was, and that I was blind?” Murdock says mockingly, going back to his supplies and catching a pair of scissors without looking at it. Frank watches him do that, trying really hard to wrap his mind around that new information.

“I thought it was a cover,” he says absently as Murdock cuts through the remains of his shirt to get them off, revealing his mangled chest. He kinda wishes he was blind too, right now. It’s nasty.

“That’s what most people think when they find out,” Murdock acknowledges with a self-deprecating nod. He sounds like there’s something more behind that admission, but also like he doesn’t want to talk about it.

They stay silent until he’s gotten all the fabric out of the way, then Murdock raises the disinfectant in front of him to indicate his intention.

Frank nods, then pauses. Then adds, “Go ahead,” and immediately feels stupid.

Murdock chuckles but doesn’t say anything, which Frank isn’t sure doesn’t annoy him even more, somehow.

He hisses when the liquid is poured over the wound on his shoulder and all over his chest and grips the couch hard enough that it makes a threatening ripping sound. Murdock completely ignores it and gets a pair of tweezers out of a plastic bag, adjusting himself where he’s sitting to have better access to the wound.

“How do you even know where I got shot anyway?” Frank asks to get his mind off the metal digging into his shoulder.

“I can feel the heat coming off the wound,” Murdock says. He frowns in concentration, twists the tweezers a little and Frank lets out a surprised shout of pain before giving him a dirty glare he doesn’t see. “And I can smell the blood.”

“Must be pretty nasty,” Frank grumbles, looking around to try and distract himself.

Murdock lets out a huff of a laugh. “I’m used to it.”

Frank feels another sharp jab of pain and bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from insulting someone, then Murdock proudly raises the bullet in front of him.

“There,” he says, letting it fall on the table with a clatter.

He puts the tweezers in a small plastic bowl before raising a hand back to his shoulder, freezing when Frank sharply moves back.

“What are you doing?” Frank asks, giving his hand a distrustful look. “You’re not putting your fingers in my shoulder, I don’t care if you have to _feel_ the damage or some shit.”

Murdock makes an exasperated sound that makes Frank think he would’ve rolled his eyes at him if he could. “I’m not going to put my fingers in your shoulder,” he says. “I just have to move it around so I can hear if anything’s wrong. There might be some shards left in there.”

Frank takes a moment to read his face, and when he only finds mild annoyance there he grunts in approval, straightening himself again.

Murdock sets to work, putting one hand on his clavicle and the other on the outside of his arm, moving his shoulder with as much care as is possible. It still hurts like hell, but his fingers are cold against his burning skin, so it’s a distraction.

Frank watches him tilt his head to the side, listening in and frowning as he focuses. His eyes are somewhere to his right, lost in empty air. If it’s an act, it’s a damn good one.

“You sure you can hear anything?” he asks after a few seconds, frustrated with the pain and getting impatient.

Murdock shushes him like a child. Frank kind of wants to talk again, then, just to annoy him, but what he wants more is for this to be over, so he reluctantly shuts up.

“I think you’re good,” Murdock finally says, letting him go, and Frank immediately misses the refreshing cold of his touch. “You have three cracked ribs, though.”

“How would you know that,” he grumbles under his breath, annoyed that he’s probably right, given the pain he feels radiating in his chest.

“I can hear your bones,” Murdock says offhandedly, taking the tweezers back and getting to work on the shotgun pellets embedded in his chest.

“That’s not creepy at all,” Frank says through gritted teeth as he pulls a first ball of lead out.

“So I’ve been told,” Murdock says.

Getting all of the shots out of him seems to take forever. Murdock doesn’t say anything else, too absorbed in his work, and Frank is thinking about so many things he doesn’t know where to start, so he stays silent too. Every now and then, Murdock puts the tweezers down and gets a hand on his chest, ghosting his fingers over the wounds. It looks like it helps him, so Frank doesn’t protest, even though it hurts and also feels kind of weird for him.

He idly wonders what else Murdock can hear, if he could hear his cracked bones. He can probably hear his heart too. That would explain a lot, actually - like how he knew he was telling the truth, earlier today, when he told him he was leaving town.

After what feels like two hours but was probably closer to thirty minutes, Murdock sets the tweezers down for good. He checks the wounds with his hand one last time, then nods.

“I think I got it all, but you’re gonna have to check for yourself and see if I missed anything,” he declares, getting up. “There’s a mirror in the bathroom.”

He helps him to his feet and leads the way there, Frank saying he can walk on his own once he’s standing. His dignity already hurts more than his actual wounds for having practically been carried over here in the first place, he doesn’t want to add to that.

Murdock turns on the light in the bathroom and Frank goes to stand in front of the mirror. He also spares a second to study his surroundings, finding them as tidy and organized as he expected from a blind guy.

“Why do you need a mirror anyway?” he says, huffing a disbelieving laugh as he checks his wounds in the reflection.

He sees the corner of Murdock’s mouth raise slightly behind his mirror-self. “For guests.”

He can’t twist the way he wants to to see his wounds properly, so it takes a while, but he finally lets out a breath when he’s certain he’s bullet-free.

“All good,” he says, turning to Murdock, who’s leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. He raises his head, his eyes going somewhere over Frank’s shoulder, and nods.

“Let’s get you patched up,” he says before leaving for the living room.

Frank follows, making a point not to stumble, even if he feels like he could fall asleep standing up, right now.

Murdock is in the kitchen when he gets there, his back to him. Frank hears water running.

He takes a look at the bloodied couch before sitting back down on his spot with a huff. “Sorry ‘bout your cushions,” he says, not sounding very sincere, even to himself.

“They were already hopeless before you bled all over them, don’t worry,” Murdock says indifferently, appearing in his field of vision with a basin of water and a pair of towels.

He dips both of them in the water, then hands one to Frank before sitting next to him. They get to work washing off dried and fresh blood alike, Frank hissing occasionally when one of them presses too hard on a wound. He’s still bleeding in places, especially his shoulder, so it’s kind of a never ending task, but when Murdock seems satisfied enough he drops his towel and grabs the disinfectant again. Frank’s hurting just looking at it, but he lets him pour some more on his wounds before he grabs what he needs to sew him shut.

“You gonna be able to do that?” he asks, raising a dubious eyebrow at him as he carefully takes the needle between his fingers and pulls a length of thread.

“You’re getting worried _now?”_ Murdock asks mockingly. “ _After_ I’ve had to dig bullets out of you?”

“Fuck off, I just think this might require a little more finesse than fishin’ for bullets,” Frank grunts, gesturing at the needle and his shoulder.

Murdock shrugs. “You’re still free to call someone else to do it,” he says.

“Thought I already told you that _there’s no one I can call_ ,” Frank growls. He’s hurting, he’s tired, he’s stressed, and he doesn’t have the patience for Murdock’s passive-agressive little remarks.

“And I _know_ you lied to me,” Murdock answers, narrowing his eyes and using the same inflection as him. “So either you call them so they can do this in my place, or you shut up and let me do it.”

Frank feels anger simmer in the pit of his stomach. He should’ve known Murdock was going to be a controlling dick. He’s tempted to just get up and leave, but he also knows that would make him very childish and stupid. He’s not even sure Murdock would let him. He might call the cops on him just to spite him.

So instead of doing that, he settles back against the couch and stubbornly fixes his gaze on the sign just outside the window, the one spilling light all over the living room.

Murdock seems to get the message and gets to work without saying anything else.

Frank can feel his fingers around the bullet hole, pushing his flesh together and brushing over the edges of it to help him know what he’s doing. It takes a little longer than it probably would have had it been Curtis doing the job, but Frank isn’t that much of an asshole he’d actually point it out.

When he hears Murdock cut the excess thread off, he finally looks down and examines the result. It’s pretty decent; maybe this isn’t the first time Murdock’s had to do that.

“I’m not used to doing it on others,” he says as if he’s heard his thoughts.

“Don’t wanna know what it looks like when you do it to yourself, then,” he grumbles.

He’s being a dick, but Murdock just chuckles and tilts his head in agreement.

He cleans the wound again, then bandages it carefully before starting over on the most wrecked parts of his torso. Not all of it requires suturing, but Frank still ends up with a dozen stitches scattered all over his chest.

By the time they’re done, he’s completely covered in gauze from his clavicles to his navel, and he feels like a slap could knock him out. He lets his head fall against the back of the couch with a sigh as Murdock methodically gathers all the supplies and stores them back into the kit.

“Maybe take on of these, now that we’re done, tough guy,” Murdock says, gesturing at the bottle of painkillers that’s still on the couch next to him.

He doesn’t wait for an answer and leaves to go put the kit back as Frank considers the offer. He doesn’t want his mind too hazy, as he still needs to drive out of New York in a couple hours, but his cracked ribs are starting to let themselves known and he feels like one big bruise. Just one pill can’t mess him up too bad, anyway, right?

He dry-swallows it and lets himself relax against the ruined cushions just as Murdock comes back into the room. He stops and stands a few feet away, head tilted as he considers him thoughtfully. Frank can feel his attention on him, but he’s tired and doesn’t have the strength to ask him what he wants.

“You wanna sleep on the couch?” Murdock says after a while, surprising him with how casual he manages to sound.

Frank huffs a laugh. “We havin’ a sleepover, Murdock?”

“You don’t look like you’re ready to move any time soon,” Murdock answers matter-of-factly.

He closes his eyes, sighs, “Nah, I’ve bothered you enough for today.” He doesn’t move right away, though; he’ll enjoy every second of rest he gets. “I’ll just go back to my car and get a few hours of sleep until I’m good to drive. Leaving tomorrow, remember?”

He cracks an eye open just in time to see Murdock shrug.

“Whatever you want,” he says. “I’ll just get you some clothes that don’t look like they’ve been used to clean a slaughterhouse.” He turns around, disappearing back into his room, before his voice comes up again, “Or smell like it too.”

Frank’s too tired to even think of getting offended, and instead barks out a laugh and closes his eyes again.

 

———

 

He wakes up hurting everywhere.

He’s on his side, which is probably the cause of the sudden rise of pain in his body and, subsequently, the reason why he woke up in the first place, as he still feels pretty exhausted.

He grunts as he sits up, glaring at the light that’s coming from outside and assaulting his eyes, then freezes when he realizes he’s not in the back of his van like he thought he was.

He’s at Murdock’s place. On his couch. He fell asleep on Murdock’s couch. He fell asleep like an _idiot_ , and Murdock’s called the cops, and he needs to get out before they get here—

“ _What is it_ , what’s wrong?!” Murdock asks urgently as he bursts out of his room, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants and looking a little crazy, with wild bed-hair and a panicked look on his face, having obviously just woken up too.

Frank freezes halfway off the couch, realizing he’s not about the get arrested, as Murdock clearly hasn’t called anyone. He stares at him a little dumbly, unable to decide if he’s surprised or not.

The silence stretches for a couple awkward seconds before Murdock speaks.

“I heard your heartbeat go crazy,” he says as a way of explaining his entrance. “You alright?”

Frank’s throat is dry, and his first attempt at answering ends up in a painful coughing fit. Murdock has a glass of water in his hands before Frank even realizes he’s moved. He gulps it down in one go, then looks at Murdock. He’s still listening to him attentively, head titled and frowning with what looks like genuine concern.

“Yeah, didn’t know where I was, for a second,” Frank says.

Matt’s shoulders relax and he nods understandingly. “You fell asleep while I was getting you fresh clothes,” he explains, gesturing at the pile of clothes on the table that Frank hadn’t noticed until then. “I thought I’d let you sleep here, seemed better than the back seat of a car.”

His mind is all over the place. He’s trying to remember the events of yesterday night while being distracted by the pain in his chest and by the fact that Murdock is half naked and looks utterly ridiculous with the creases of his pillow etched on his cheek. All of this makes it pretty hard to wrap his mind around the situation, so it takes him a moment to answer.

“Sorry,” he says, hoping Murdock has no way to tell he feels like the world’s biggest dumbass, right now.

“No problem,” he says, going for casual but still looking a little worried that Frank’s going to make a run for it any second.

“I’m just gonna..,” Frank starts, trailing off and gesturing at the clothes.

“Go ahead,” Murdock says awkwardly, before rounding him and the couch and going for the kitchen.

Frank hears some drawers open and close and the clang of cutlery as he grabs his clothes and gets up to get the hoodie on. Thankfully it has a zipper, so he doesn’t have to get it over his head, but he still manages to jar his shoulder while maneuvering his arm into it and lets out a grunt of pain. The sweatpants are less painful to move into, and once he’s fully changed he considers his ruined jeans for half a second before getting them in a ball.

“Under the sink,” Murdock says from the kitchen, and when Frank turns to him questioningly he nods at the sink and clarifies, “Garbage bin under the sink.”

Frank throws the bloody piece of clothing away and looks over at Murdock, who’s breaking a second egg in a bowl in a practiced motion. From where he is, Frank can see a couple of impressive scars on him, as well as fresh bruises on his side to add to the one he saw on his jaw yesterday. His knuckles are red, covered in splinters, and without his glasses to hide them, the bags under his eyes are even more obvious.

“You ever think about taking a vacation, Murdock?” he asks before he has time to think.

Murdock pauses, holding another egg a couple inches above the bowl.

“Sometimes,” he says finally, a small, self-deprecating smile on his lips. He cracks the egg and empties it mechanically.

That’s apparently the only answer he’s going to get, so Frank decides it’s time for him to go. He opens his mouth to say something, like “See you around” or maybe even “Thank you”, but Murdock speaks before he has a chance to.

“You want breakfast?”

Frank looks at him, bewildered. Did he hear him right?

Apparently yes, because Murdock turns to him, leaning his hip against the counter, and nods at the bowl he’s just filled to illustrate his question, waiting for his answer.

“What are you planning?” Frank asks, more confused than accusing.

Murdock snorts. “I’m going to kill you by feeding you poisoned eggs. After going through all the trouble of treating you and hiding you from the police.” He gives him the blind equivalent of a meaningful look.

“I don’t know, still seems more likely than you offering me breakfast,” Frank retorts, only half-joking.

“I don’t know, I’m being hospitable, alright?” Murdock says impatiently. He looks a little frustrated, and Frank suddenly understands that he feels just as alien to this situation as he does. It’s weirdly comforting, actually, not to be the only one on unfamiliar grounds. “Consider it a peace offering, or a goodbye, or _whatever_ , I don’t know. Look, do you want breakfast or not?”

Frank looks at him, taking in his drawn shoulders and tired face. He looks like he bears the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Frank should be out of the city, by now. Going west and not looking back.

He shrugs and turns to the fridge. “I hope you have some bacon in there somewhere, Murdock.”

 

———

 

“So, this is farewell, I guess?” Frank says, standing next to the door.

“If it isn’t, it would mean you lied to me,” Murdock says. He’s leaning against the wall and there’s the beginning of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

“You’d know anyway,” Frank grumbles, still weirded out by the idea that he can hear his heartbeat.

“That’s why I know it’s farewell,” Murdock says matter-of-factly.

Frank opens the door, but stops in the middle of getting out. There’s still half of him that thinks this is a very stupid idea, and the other half doesn’t understand why he’s doing it, but he ignores both of them and turns back to Murdock.

“I don’t think I thanked you for not calling the cops on me,” he says.

Murdock raises an eyebrow at him. “Thank me by leaving New york,” he says, but he sounds more playful than threatening.

Frank huffs a laugh. “Sure. Still, I owe you one.”

He gets the paper out of his pocket and hands it to him. Murdock takes it, frowning in confusion. He unfolds it and runs his fingers across the numbers. Since he doesn’t know Braille, Frank made sure to press extra hard while writing so he’d be able to read them.

Murdock turns his head to him, a familiar questioning tilt to it. His eyes manage to lend on his face by coincidence and Frank suddenly feels exposed.

“If you need any help,” he says nonchalantly in hope it covers the jump in his heartbeat, nodding at the piece of paper.

There’s a hint of a smile tugging at Murdock’s lips when he answers, “You know I’m never calling that, right?”

Frank shrugs. “Can’t hurt to have it.”

Murdock still puts the paper in his pocket. Satisfied, Frank gives him one final nod and leaves.

Since his last safe-house is now a crime scene, he doesn’t have anything else to do here. He’s gone by noon.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

It’s been a month since he’s left New York, and he’s just starting to get used to the idea that not everyone is out to get him.

He’s somewhere in West-Virginia, doesn’t even remember the name of the place. Some small town - more of a village, really - south of Morgantown.

His hair is longer and he needs to shave, but the beard helps him calm his nerves by telling himself that he’s less recognizable that way. Even though he’s relatively far from New York by now, it’s still hard to let his guard down entirely when he knows his face was all over the news for weeks.

But tonight he almost feels normal. He left his car at his motel and went for a walk through town, eventually stopping at a bar and ending up drinking a couple beers. There were only a few people there, some quiet conversations and, occasionally, cheers when something happened on the small TV above the bar. Frank hadn’t even looked at it to see what kind of game it was, he mostly spent his time enjoying the atmosphere and general peacefulness of the place.

Now its almost midnight and he’s getting back to his room when his phone starts ringing, and all the tension he’s managed to shake off during the evening comes crashing back down on him.

He has his phone out almost instantly. He’s only given that number to three people, and he trusts all of them to only call in case of emergency.

“What is it?” he says in lieu of a greeting. He’s already picked up his pace, planning his trip back to New York in his head as he walks. He can probably make it by noon tomorrow if he leaves right away and doesn’t stop.

“I could use some of that help you were talking about,” Matt Murdock says in his ear.

Frank stops in his tracks for a beat, too surprised to remember to walk. Out of the three people who could call him, Murdock’s certainly the one he never expected to do so. Must be pretty bad if he’d resigned to come to him for help.

“What’s going on?” he asks, resuming his trip back to his motel.

“What can you tell me about a man named Maginty?” Murdock asks.

Frank stops again, this time because he realizes that Murdock doesn’t sound like this is an emergency at all. He sounds like he’s asking him the fucking time.

“What?” he says flatly, the restrained anger he feels threatening to boil over in his chest making his voice sound clipped.

“Maginty,” Murdock repeats. “Apparently he has ties to the Irish mob, so—”

“Are you seriously asking me that?” he cuts him off, ice-cold.

“It’s important,” Murdock says matter-of-factly.

“ _Fuck you_ , Murdock.”

He hangs up.

He goes back to his room and gets under the shower, compensating the weak water pressure by setting it to scalding hot. He stays under the spray until it hurts, then he stays some more. Anything to get his mind off the blinding rage he feels just thinking about the whole thing.

He can’t fucking _believe_ he was ready to go all the way back to New York for him, when all fucking _Matthew Murdock_ wanted was trivia on the Irish mob. He risked his fucking _freedom_ by giving him that number, and fucking Murdock uses it _to_ —

Frank turns the shower off when it does nothing to calm him, dresses up in an angry daze, then goes to raid the minibar. He needs something stronger than beer if he even wants to sleep tonight.

 

———

 

He wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache, but at least the burning rage he felt the day before has faded down to slight irritation, which is a sentiment he’s gotten used to associate with Murdock a long time ago.

He leaves the room to go hunt the greasiest breakfast food he can find, then comes back around ten and packs his stuff.

He drives for a long while, that day. Longer than he usually does. He’s in the middle of nowhere when he’s finally too exhausted to keep his eyes open, so he sleeps in the back of his van. He dreams of Irishmen shooting at him and of the fucking _sweater_ Murdock seems to think is suitable protection to go fight people with _guns_.

He wakes up in a cold sweat and it takes a while for him to calm down.

The sun’s almost up when he gets out of his car and on the side of the road. He considers the phone in his hands for a long moment before finally hitting call.

He hears the line click on and doesn’t give Murdock a chance to speak.

“Maginty was one of Nesbitt’s right-hand men,” he says. He can hear Murdock’s inhale on the end of the line as he tries to get a word in, but he continues, “He left the gang before I came to town. He’s in Harlem, now, doing his own thing.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Murdock lets out a breath. “I know. He’s taken care of.”

Frank looks at the ground, feeling relief wash over him. “Alright,” he says. “Good.”

“I’m sorry I called you,” Murdock says. “I wasn’t thinking, I should’ve known you meant emergencies only when you said you’d help.”

“Nah, I…” Frank looks around him absently. He thinks about his dream, about the blood he saw on his hands. “I’m sorry I freaked out. I should’ve at least given you some info, could’ve been dangerous.”

He hears Murdock huff a laugh. “I can handle myself.”

“You keep bringing batons to gunfights, Murdock, I’m not so sure about that,” he says a little patronizingly.

That earns him another laugh.

“You sound like Foggy,” Murdock says almost affectionately.

“Then he’s a smart man,” Frank retorts, feeling the beginning of a smile tug at his mouth.

There’s a beat, then Murdock clears his throat. “Alright, I guess I’ll leave you alone, then. I won’t call again.”

Frank has half a second to make up his mind before Murdock hangs up, so he doesn’t really think about what he’s saying before the words are out of his mouth.

“It’s alright, you can call,” he says, then adds, “If you need help again,” so Murdock doesn’t misunderstands this as an offer to _talk_ \- because that would be ridiculous.

There’s a couple of agonizing seconds of silence, but then there’s a smile in Murdock’s voice when he answers.

“I will.”

 

———

 

It happens again two weeks later.

Murdock calls for information on the Dogs of Hell, and Frank tells him about one of their old lairs.

They talk about Karen, and the conversation ends rather cooly, with Frank hanging up on him in the middle of a sentence, but Murdock still calls back three days later to let him know he got rid of a whole stock of weapons.

Three weeks pass, and Frank is shaving again when Murdock calls a third time.

He asks if he knows about any drug deals that went down between the Irish and some Serbian gang. He sounds weird, so Frank asks him if he’s alright. For someone who can tell so easily when someone is lying, Murdock really sucks at it.

“You sound like you got run over by a train,” Frank tells him flatly when he insists that he’s fine.

There’s an irritated sigh. “I might’ve fallen from a roof,” Murdock admits begrudgingly.

Frank is torn between horror and hilarity. “How did that happen, exactly? You didn’t see the ledge?”

He can _hear_ Murdock’s flat look.

“I got pushed off,” he says.

“You got thrown off a roof, and now you wanna go against Serbian drug dealers?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Someone in the booth next to his gives him a weird look.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Murdock hisses. “Why do you even care?”

That gives Frank pause, but Murdock’s oblivious and just goes on, letting out a frustrated growl. “You know what? Forget I even asked, I’ll find my own info.”

The line clicks shut before Frank can protest, and he looks at his phone in outrage. Oh, like _hell_ he’s going to leave it at that.

He finds Nelson’s number fairly easily and buys a burner phone for the sole purpose of shooting him a quick text about Matt being sick, and he lets friendship and worry do the rest.

Murdock calls him back the next day, not even waiting for him to speak before hissing in his ear, “I can’t _believe_ you brought Foggy into this, how _dare_ you—”

“Is he keeping you from going out and getting yourself killed?” Frank asks, completely ignoring the heat in his voice.

“He and Karen are taking turns watching me,” Murdock says, sounding like a sulky child.

“Then I regret nothing,” Frank says, shrugging.

He can’t help but smile like an idiot as Murdock goes off about minding his own business, and he imagines him hiding in his bathroom to call him while Nelson or Karen wait outside.

“You done?” he asks when Murdock finally pauses long enough for him to get a word in. “Because I have to get back on the road, and I’m not driving and texting.”

“I’m never calling you again,” Murdock says flatly, and not very convincingly.

Frank’s in a great mood for the rest of the day.

 

———

 

Despite what he said, Murdock calls him again a week after that to ask about the Kitchen Irish.

And Frank… Doesn’t know. He has nothing to give him.

Of course it was eventually going to happen, he wouldn’t always have fresh information, but he just never thought about it before now.

He wonders if Murdock won’t call again if he tells him he has nothing for him, then he scolds himself for even thinking that, and then he realizes he’s been silent for way too long.

“I don’t know,” he says.

He looks at the ugly conforter on his motel bed like it might give him the name of an Irish gang leader, or even a insignificant mobster. Anything, really.

“Oh,” he hears Murdock say, sounding genuinely surprised, like he never considered that an option.

“Yeah, guess I’m not up-to-date with Hell’s Kitchen’s nightlife anymore,” he says, clipped.

“It’s okay, I can probably find info elsewhere,” Murdock says, and Frank gives his wall a death-glare.

“Right. Good luck, then,” he says, then hangs up, cutting off the first syllable of Murdock’s next sentence.

Of course Murdock could find info elsewhere, he’d been doing it long before Frank even came to Hell’s Kitchen. It was just more convenient to call him instead of going out there and putting his ass on the line for it.

His phone starts ringing again five seconds later, but after checking it out of paranoia, only to see it’s still Murdock, he sets it on silent and puts it in his back pocket. He leaves his room and walks into the first bar he sees, because getting drunk is better than getting his fist in someone’s face.

It’s pretty crowded, but he must have what David called his murder face on, because there’s a five feet radius around him where no one dares to enter. He can feel his phone buzz in his pocket four more times before Murdock finally gets the message and gives up. Frank doesn’t have the patience to hear his condescending bullshit excuses.

He doesn’t remember getting back to his room, but when he wakes up the next morning on the ground next to his bed, he somehow feels even worse than yesterday. Because now that he’s drunk his anger away, all that’s left is the knowledge that he probably won’t be talking to Murdock again, and the fact he even _cares_ makes him feel like the world’s biggest asshole.

 _He_ was the one who told him he could call if he needed info, even though he was supposed to have cut all his ties to New York and his old life. Murdock has Nelson and Karen, and probably a lot of other people too, it's not his fault Frank got fucking emotional over all of this.

 _Fuck_ , he used to be better at loneliness.

He gets up and goes to have a staring contest with his reflection in the bathroom’s broken mirror for a while, taking in the bags under his eyes and overall miserable aura he’s putting out.

When he hears his phone start buzzing again on the bed where he left it, he lets out a long-suffering sigh.

Except Murdock is nothing but stubborn, so after the third time he calls, Frank finally answers.

“Need anything?” he asks cynically.

“Actually, yes,” Murdock says, and Frank rolls his eyes. The asshole probably felt guilty - like the fucking martyr he is - and came up with a whole new gang-related issue just to have something to talk to him about and feel like a good guy again.

“I don’t need your pity, Murdock,” he growls.

“It’s not that,” Murdock insists. He sounds like this is costing him dearly.

“Listen, I’m fine, alright?” he snaps. He’s defensive and he knows it, but he was never really any good at mastering his temper. “I don’t need you to talk me to bed every night, I don’t need you to talk to me at all. I was fine before you called me in the first place, and I’ll be fine without having to hear your fucking—”

“Can you cook?” Murdock interrupts, and Frank is so confused he actually shuts up long enough for him to go on. “Me and Foggy want to make a cake for Karen’s birthday, but we’re both terrible.”

Frank is taken aback for a long moment before he remembers he’s angry. It’s not gang-related, but he still came up with something to coddle him into thinking he gives a shit about him.

“You really want me to believe you don’t have anyone else you can ask that?” he says sharply.

“I— It’s not—” Murdock cuts himself off with an irritated huff. “Look, it’s not what you think, alright?”

“And what am I thinking, Murdock, mh?” he asks sarcastically. “Is reading minds another one of your powers?”

He hears him inhale deeply, undoubtedly to keep himself from talking out of anger.

“You’re thinking I’m forcing myself to talk to you because I feel bad,” he says finally.

“Are you?” Frank can’t help but ask, hoping the bite in his voice covers up the hint of hope.

“I’m not, that’s what I’m trying to _say!”_ Murdock finally snaps. “I mean, I _do_ feel bad, but that’s not—”

“Then _don’t_ ,” Frank snarls. “I’m not a charity case, I don’t need—”

“ _Shut up!_ Oh my _God_ , you’re so— _ugh_ ,” Murdock barks, actually managing to stun him into silence. He makes a frustrated sound and there’s a scuffle on the line. “I feel bad because I made you think I was only calling you for information, alright?”

Frank doesn’t think he’s ever heard him cuss before. He’s too shocked to think of something to say, and there’s a brief silence during which they both listen to each other’s breathing.

Finally, Murdock lets out a sigh, some of the fight leaving him.

“I’m terrible at this,” he says self-deprecatingly. “I actually had to ask Karen for advice, and even then, look where that led me.”

Frank’s disbelief actually manages to get him his voice back. “You talked to Karen about this?”

“I didn’t say it was for you, but yeah,” Murdock says, huffing a laugh. “I said I needed friendship advice.”

Frank can’t help but laugh at that too, chosing to completely ignore the complicated part about friendship.

“I’m not any good at it either, if it’s any confort to you,” he admits.

He hears Murdock scoff. “Yeah, I noticed.”

There’s a pause, then Frank asks, “Did you really need cooking advice, or was that just you being hopeless at relationships?”

Murdock laughs. “I do, actually,” he says, and Frank chuckles, shakes his head in disbelief. Damn, they both suck at this.

“Well, you clearly went to the wrong person for this, but I know a chocolate cake recipe, if you’re interested,” he says nonchalantly, sitting down on his bed.

“I’m all ears.”

 

———

 

A month goes by.

Frank can’t count how many towns he’s been though anymore. He doesn’t care. It’s a freeing sensation.

After the whole “Talking about Feelings” debacle, Murdock started calling him for mundane things. He called to tell him how the cake turned out - terrible - and how Karen’s birthday went - great. Then he called to tell him Nelson had taken a self-defense class and sprained his wrist, which made Frank laugh for a whole minute while Murdock scolded him, but he could tell he was trying to keep himself from laughing too out of solidarity for his friend.

He tells him about the cases they win, the ones they lose - there are more of the former, fortunately - and about the time he and Karen were invited to Nelson’s place and had to hide their inedible dessert in their napkins as not to offend his terrible cook of a girlfriend.

He calls to complain about his neighbor who studies violin at three in the morning — “It’s nice he wants to get better, but there’s a time and place for everything, you know? Do you know how often I get a chance to get a full night’s sleep?” — and to tell him about a tired waitress in a diner he was at with Nelson that handed him a menu, then whispered a horrified “Oh my God” when she realized what she’d done.

Talking to him surprisingly doesn’t take much getting used to. If they stay away from the dangerous subjects - and they do - their conversations are always nice. They distract Frank from the unfamiliar emptiness of his routine.

He doesn’t _mind_ the calm; doing nothing is better than hiding from the government while trying to uncover a deeply-rooted conspiracy and fighting for his life, but the contrast between the two is sharp, and sometimes he feels a little like he’s missing something. Aside from the painfully obvious, of course. The adrenaline, maybe.

It’s the middle of the night when he’s woken up by the furious buzzing of his phone on the night table. He’s used to Murdock calling him at odd hours, by now, but this is a first.

He grabs it and presses the call button. “This is late, even for you,” he grumbles.

“You don’t sound like a Sharon,” a voice that is definitely not Murdock’s says, confused.

Frank’s immediately more alert, sitting up in his bed and looking at the caller’s ID to confirm it’s really Murdock’s phone calling. It definitely is, so he puts it back to his ear with a frown.

“Who is this?” he asks suspiciously, his mind going over a dozen different scenarios already.

He hears some scuffle on the end of the line, muffled voices, then Murdock is talking, slurring and tripping over his words, “Sorry, sorry, _sorry_ , it won’t happen _ever_ again, sorry.”

“Murdock?” Frank frowns, relieved he’s not been kidnapped like he originally thought, but getting more confused by the second. “What’s going on? Who was that?”

“It was — _no I’m not, shut up_ \- it was Foggy,” he says apologetically, and Frank finally understands what’s wrong with his voice when he hears giggles in the background. He’s _drunk_. “I’m _so_ , so so so, sorry, he took my phone, and—”

There’s a blunt noise, some more scuffle, and he guesses he just dropped his phone, then Murdock says, “I’ll explain next time alright? Sorry, bye.”

Then the line goes dead, and Frank is left sitting up in his bed at three AM, slowly realizing that Matt Murdock just drunk dialed him.

 

———

 

He’s digging his way through a huge pile of bacon when his phone rings the next morning. He was expecting it and answers in the middle of the first ring, already smiling mockingly.

“I can’t wait to hear it,” he says around a mouthful of bacon.

Murdock groans on the other end of the line. “Can we just never talk about it again?”

Frank swallows, scoffs, “Not a chance in hell. Explain.”

Murdock lets out a long-suffering sigh as Frank goes back to his breakfast. If he was half as drunk as he sounded last night, he must have one hell of a headache, right now.

“We won a case, so we went out to celebrate, me, Karen and Foggy,” he rasps, then clears his throat. Frank hears what sounds like covers rustling and realizes he might’ve just woken up.

“Do you always celebrate this hard, or was that a special occasion?” he can’t help but ask, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice.

“It was supposed to just be a few beers,” Murdock grumbles. “We went to Josie’s with the client, and she wanted to thank us so she bought us shots…” He groans again. “So many shots.”

“Nobody forced you to drink ‘em,” Frank remarks matter-of-factly.

“I’d already had a few drinks, by that point,” Murdock admits.

He sighs tiredly, and Frank pictures him lying in his bed, facing the ceiling with his phone to his ear and that ridiculous bed-hair of his. Then he asks himself what the fuck he’s doing.

“Anyway, the client went home, and we all went to Karen’s afterwards, and she had that _horrible_ gin, it was _so bad_ , Frank,” Murdock groans sounding so genuine in his disgust Frank can’t help but laugh. “It smelled like— like _moldy gas_ , I dunno. Tasted like it, too.”

“It was bad, I get it. But you drank it anyway,” Frank guesses.

“But we drank it anyway,” Murdock repeats self-deprecatingly. “We were all pretty wasted, and Foggy took my phone when I wasn’t paying attention, and he found your contact, and you know the rest.”

Frank hums in his coffee, then asks, “What was that thing he said about Sharon?”

He hears a sigh, like this is the part Murdock didn’t want to get to.

“You’re named Sharon, in my contacts,” he grumbles.

Frank barks out a laugh and almost chokes on his coffee. When he’s calmed down enough, he says, “That the most unassuming name you could find?”

“Not unassuming enough, apparently, since Foggy immediately thought it was suspicious and called you,” Murdock retorts grouchily.

“I’m hurt, Murdock,” Frank says, feigning resentment. “I’m at least worth a Susan, or a Meg.”

That gets him an earnest laugh from him, so it’s worth getting amused looks from the two other patrons in the diner who heard him say it.

“I’ll be sure to change it,” Murdock says with a smile in his voice.

“Why was his first reflex to call it, anyway?” Frank asks, hiding his grin in his cup. “Don’t you know any real Sharon the number could’ve belonged to?”

“I don’t,” Murdock says. “He thought it was a secret girlfriend that I didn’t want them to know about.”

Frank laughs. “Where would he have gotten that idea?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but when Murdock doesn’t immediately say something, he knows he took it as a genuine one.

“Well… I’ve been calling you a lot,” Murdock says after a pause, suddenly sounding a little awkward. “They noticed.”

Have they, really? Frank thought their conversations didn’t even register as a blip on Murdock’s life’s radar. He knew he didn’t have a crazy social network, but surely he knew enough people that it wouldn’t be noticeable he spent some time on the phone with him every few days.

He’s not special, is he?

He shakes his head to get rid of the thought, refusing to acknowledge the stupid things this idea makes his heart do. He’s not a fucking high-schooler, goddammit.

“Either you need dumber friends, or you need to up your cover-up game, if having someone called Sharon in your contacts is a dead giveaway that you’re hiding something,” he says to break the awkward silence that’s settled while he was having his little realization.

Murdock lets out a chuckle. “I think I’ll just tell them to mind their own business.”

“I’m sure that’ll work great, knowing Karen,” Frank says, rolling his eyes.

“They listen when I ask kindly enough,” Murdock says playfully. “Most of the time, anyway.”

There’s a pause, then Murdock takes a breath.

“Look, I’m sorry I let him take my phone like that,” he says seriously. “I know you took a risk giving me your number, I should have—”

“Relax, Murdock, it’s fine,” Frank cuts him off, rolling his eyes. “He doesn’t even know who he called, and I don’t think I’d be his first guess, anyway.”

Murdock lets out a relieved chuckle. “Fair enough.”

They dissolve into easy conversation after that, up until Frank’s done with his third coffee and Murdock announces he needs to get up eventually, confirming Frank’s suspicion that he was still in bed at one in the afternoon.

They hang up, and Frank stares at his empty cup of coffee with a stupid smile on his face for a while, until he realizes he’s doing it and schools his expression into a more neutral look. He still feels relaxed and happy, though, more than he’s been in a while.

This is going to be another one of these things he refuses to think about, he knows it.

 

———

 

It’s almost two AM and they’ve been bantering mindlessly for a while, talking about nothing, when suddenly Murdock lets out a shout of pain that makes Frank push himself off his pillow on one elbow.

“Murdock?” he asks cautiously.

There’s a muffled grunt, and Frank’s mind immediately jumps to the most ridiculous conclusions. He’s been shot, he fell, he—

“You better tell me what the hell is going on, Murdock, or I swear I’m getting Nelson on your case right now and you’re not getting out of that apartment of yours for the next week,” he threatens, getting more restless with each second he doesn’t answer.

“I’m fine,” Murdock finally says, but it sounds strangled. “Just pulled on my stitches a little too hard.”

“Your sti— _you said you were taking a night off_ ,” Frank says accusingly, and only after that realizes he sounds like his mom.

“I _am_ taking a night off,” Murdock retorts, then adds, “Because of my stitches.”

“Fell off a roof again?” Frank says sarcastically.

“Fell on a knife,” Murdock answers.

Frank wants to teleport all the way to Hell’s Kitchen to strangle him. That fucking _sweater_. It’s been haunting him ever since he saw it, he _knew_ it wouldn’t protect him for _shit_ —

“Where’s that red suit of yours?” he growls into the phone.

“What?” Murdock asks, confused by what must sound like a non sequitur to him.

“The fucking _suit_ , Murdock. Where is it,” he repeats, enunciating each word slowly.

“In my closet,” he answers.

Frank’s sure he just felt a vein burst somewhere on his forehead.

“And why is your fucking reinforced, _knife-proof_ combat suit in your closet?” he asks, putting the emphasis on _knife_ in hope that Murdock will get the message.

He does, judging by the sulky tone of his voice when he answers.

“I’m not wearing it again. It doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

“It doesn’t have to— _Jesus Christ_ , are you hearing yourself?” Frank snaps, furious. “It doesn’t have to _mean_ anything, it has to keep you from getting _stabbed_.”

“You done?” Murdock says, irritated. “I don’t need you telling me how to do this. I can handle myself.”

“ _Obviously not,_ ” Franks retorts.

“ _Right_ , because _you’re_ Mr. Cautious,” Murdock says sarcastically.

“At least _I_ have the presence of mind to wear a _fucking_ _vest_ when I know I’m gonna get shot at!” he barks. “I dunno, Murdock, kinda seems like you’re _trying_ to get killed, from where I’m standing!”

There’s silence after that, and for a second Frank thinks Murdock hung up on him, but once blood stops roaring in his ears he can hear him breathing.

No one says anything for a long while, but neither of them hang up, so they just listen to each other take long exhales until they’ve calmed down. Frank still feels frustrated - when does he _not_ , when Murdock is involved? - but he’s mostly tired of being angry at him.

“You know, if you keep this up, you might end up doing worse than falling off a roof or getting stabbed,” he says, going for nonchalant but ending up sounding kind of resigned.

There’s a sigh at the end of the line. “You sound like Foggy.”

“Then he’s a smart man,” Frank says, echoing a conversation that seems like it happened in another life.

They don’t talk much after that, but they don’t hang up either. Frank ends up falling asleep with his phone in his hand.

 

———

 

He’s been on the road for almost five months, now, and every three or four days, he gets a call from Murdock.

It’s regular enough that he knows when he can expect it - he doesn’t _look forward_ to it, because that’s something a high-schooler would do, but he makes sure to have his phone close to him on those days.

That’s why he starts getting a little worried when he doesn’t get a call for two whole _weeks_.

Actually, he starts to worry the sixth day he doesn’t get any news from him, but he refuses to freak out immediately, because that would probably make him a little clingy.

He tries calling him the eighth day, and doesn’t get any answer.

He feels ridiculous - Murdock’s the fucking Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and even though he told him the exact opposite not three weeks earlier, Frank honestly believes he can - _mostly_ \- handle himself. He’s fought against ninjas and Fisk’s whole empire, what are a couple of street thugs gonna do against him, right?

Blow him up, apparently, if he’s to believe the news article he finds online, depicting the collapse of a building in Hell’s Kitchen that happened right around the time Murdock should have called - and didn’t. 

He scrolls down a little frantically on the screen of the shitty internet café computer, revealing the entirety of the article, complete with a picture of what’s left of the building after the fact. Anyone still in there when it went down would have had no chance of surviving.

The article talks about a exploding device left in the underground garage, and mentions that the place was apparently known to be a Mexican Cartel hideout. A dozen corpses were found inside, but the identities aren’t disclosed.

He leaves the café, walking fast and not knowing where he’s going.

He needs to calm down, set his thoughts straight. Maybe Murdock managed to get out. Even if he didn’t, maybe he survived. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he pulls it off, from what little he knows about the time he was out of town.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to Frank, and the building was a coincidence. Honestly, Frank wouldn’t even mind, if it meant Murdock was alright, and _damn_ , that’s fucking sappy.

He tries calling him six times, then gives up. That doesn’t completely rule out the possibility that he just doesn’t want to talk to him, but by now Frank’s starting to know him well enough to know he’d at least answer just to tell him to fuck off - more politely, of course, but the feeling would be there.

It takes him until night to make up his mind, then he calls Karen.

He knows it’s a stupid move, putting them both in danger with no guarantee of it even mattering, but he has to know.

At least he used a burner phone that he’s planning on throwing away as soon as he’s done with it, so she won’t be able to call him back - because he knows she will.

Her voice is a mix of wariness and curiosity when she answers.

“Hello?”

He doesn’t have time for pleasantries.

“Is Murdock dead?” he asks urgently.

It only takes her half a second to place his voice, but she still sounds incredulous. “Wha— _Frank?_ What is—”

“Is he?” he cuts her off, not really caring about being polite, right now.

Karen doesn’t say anything for a second and Frank wants to scream at her, urge her to tell him, but instead he holds his breath and shuts his eyes in a silent prayer.

“No, he’s not,” she finally says, sounding resolute.

Frank feels relief wash over him, so overwhelming that he doesn’t even care if Karen hears the shaky breath he lets out.

She apparently decides her own questions can wait, because she goes on, “He’s at his apartment— bed rest. He’s…”

She pauses, sighs.

“He was in pretty bad shape.”

Relief is immediately replaced with worry again.

“How bad?” he asks.

“He has seven cracked ribs, and a metal pipe went through his leg when the building collapsed, he almost bled out. He slept for almost a week, then he woke up not knowing where he was and hurt himself some more trying to get up,” she says. “He’s better, now, though.”

“I don’t see how he could be _better_ with seven cracked ribs and a busted leg,” Frank snaps, then hates himself a little for talking to her like that. She’s done nothing to deserve his shitty temper.

“You should’ve seen him when we first found him,” she says, aiming for light but ending up a little strained.

“I’m glad I didn’t,” he grunts. The mental image he’s got of Murdock right now is already more than enough.

“He’ll be okay,” Karen says, comforting. “He’s already being an ass about getting up and around.”

Frank scoffs. “Of course he is. You makin’ sure he doesn’t get himself killed?”

“Me and Foggy are taking turns watching him. _Again_ ,” Karen says, sounding a little annoyed they even have to. “I’m there now, actually.”

Frank freezes for a second. If she’s there and Murdock is awake, he probably heard their whole conversation.

Karen probably knows him a little too well, because she sighs.

“You wanna talk to him?”

He can hear the sound of her heels clicking as she moves around in the apartment. He shakes his head, trying for indifferent. “Nah, I was just making sure.”

“He’s making a face, I’m giving him the phone,” Karen says. “Don’t think we’re done talking, though.”

Frank has no time to worry about that last bit before there’s a muffled sound indicating the phone is being passed.

There’s silence for a while, then Murdock says, “So, uh… You called Karen.”

He doesn’t sound accusing, but Frank’s first reflex is still to justify himself.

“You weren’t answering, and I was—”

Murdock thankfully interrupts him before he has time to say something embarrassing, “No, no, don’t worry, I’m not— I don’t mind, I’m actually—”

He cuts himself off, clears his throat awkwardly.

“Anyway, I don’t mind,” he says more seriously. “Sorry I didn’t tell you, my phone got smashed in the accident, and I didn’t want to put your number in someone else’s.”

Frank had actually started on planning what he was going to scream at him for letting him think he was _dead_ for weeks, but as soon as he hears that his anger deflates ridiculously easily.

“Surprisingly thoughtful of you,” he says, aiming for mocking but ending up - mortifyingly - sounding a little affectionate.

That earns him a laugh nonetheless. “I’ve been known to be, from time to time,” Murdock says.

Frank clears his throat to get rid of the tightness there.

“I’m serious about you needing a vacation, you know,” he says a little patronizingly.

Murdock sighs. He suddenly sounds way more tired than a second ago, more like he has seven broken ribs.

“I’m starting to think about it, yeah,” he says, and it’s more than Frank ever thought possible of him to admit out loud.

Not wanting to push his luck and insist - for now -, he changes the subject.

“She’s not going to drop it, you know? Now that she knows you have my number,” he says.

“I know,” Murdock says. He speaks the rest under his breath, which makes Frank think Karen must be listening in. “I won’t give it to her if you don’t want me to.”

He takes a moment to really think about it. He doesn’t care as much as he would have five - or even two - months ago. He still thinks it’s better for her if Karen never hears of him again, but hearing her voice stirred something in him that he’d manage to convince himself he didn’t miss, and he feels a little selfish.

“I have to think about it,” he says finally.

Murdock hums in understanding, then pauses for a second.

“She’s starting to look like she wants her phone back,” he says.

“Give it to her, then. And get yourself a new one,” Frank says, a little commanding.

“It’s already ordered,” Murdock answers smugly. “Talk to you later?”

He exhales slowly, letting tension leak out of his shoulders.

“Yeah.”

He feels like he should say something else, like “I’m glad you’re not dead” or “Don’t scare me like that again”, but he can’t get the words out, and anyway, he thinks Murdock knows.

Karen has her phone back the next moment.

“So,” she says, sounding a little irritated, “do you keep tabs on all of us, or is Matt special?”

He sighs and gets a hand through his hair, tugging at it. “He’s not— I don’t— Look, it’s better if you don’t hear from me again, alright?”

“But _he_ can?” Karen retorts, and she sounds pretty mad. Frank is glad to be here, and not right in front of her. He pities Murdock, who’ll have to face her wrath in person. “I didn’t even know you two _knew_ each other.”

“It’s not—” he starts defensively, but she cuts him off.

“I’m not asking for you to write me every week, but you could’ve at least told me you were _alive_ , Frank,” she says, a touch of hurt tainting her anger. “I think I’ve earned the right to know these things.”

He sighs, defeated. He’s helpless against her. 

“I know. You have,” he says sincerely. “I’m sorry.”

He hears her exhale deeply, and when she speaks again after a long pause, she’s calmer.

“I’m sorry for getting angry,” she says. “It’s just— between you and Matt, you two are so— so _stubborn_ , and _cagey_ , and I’m tired of it.”

He huffs a laugh. He only has to deal with Murdock’s bullshit, so he can only imagine what it’s like having to deal with his own on top of it.

“Yeah, sorry. We’re not good at relationships,” he says.

Karen inhales sharply, as if she’s just thought of something.

“Wait— oh, _you’re_ Sharon! That makes so much _sense!”_ she says, sounding like this is the best news she’s gotten all year.

“ _Oh my God_ ,” he groans, burying his face in his free hand. Karen laughs in his ear.

“I can’t believe _you’re_ Matt’s secret sweetheart,” she says.

“Wha— _I’m not—_ ” he starts protesting at the same time he hears Murdock do the same in the background, but Karen ignores them both.

“It’s a shame I can’t tell Foggy, this is hilarious,” she says, a grin in her voice.

“Please don’t,” Murdock’s muffled voice groans somewhere next to her .

“We’d appreciate if you didn’t,” Frank confirms, grumbling. He doesn’t know much about Nelson, but he’s practically certain he wouldn’t appreciate discovering both of his best friends have been hiding their ties to the Punisher from him; he was already the least enthusiastic of the three when they were defending him two years ago.

“I won’t,” Karen says more seriously. “I promise. But you have to promise me something in return.”

Frank sighs. He has a feeling he already knows what she’s about to ask. He secretly hopes she does.

“What?” he asks, feigning to be more reluctant than he really is.

Her voice is gentle when she answers. “Call, once in a while, okay?”

He closes his eyes, swallows back the surge of affection he feels for her. It takes him a moment, but his voice is almost back to normal when he speaks up again.

“Alright.”

She seems pleased with that answer.

“Thank you,” she says sincerely. “I guess I won’t keep you any longer, then?”

He lets himself smile fondly, lets his armor part for a second. “Right. Talk to you soon.”

“Goodbye, Frank.”

That night, he goes to sleep relieved of a weight he hadn’t even known he’d been carrying since the beginning of his trip.

 

———

 

It’s been six months, and he’s in Ohio, a small town called Marietta. His occupations being fairly limited, he’s in a bar when Murdock calls him, sounding more tired than he’s ever heard him.

Frank is immediately tense.

“What’s going on?”

Instead of answering, Murdock says, “How far west are you? I think I’m ready to take that vacation.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might be a third chapter coming one day, but i'm not making any promises because i am a very unreliable human being


End file.
